


a knight poorly made.

by Pitseleh



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Addiction, Erectile Dysfunction, F/M, Fluff, Oral Sex, inspecific inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:05:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3167579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pitseleh/pseuds/Pitseleh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She speaks against his lips, her breath ghosting over his scar. "I <i>am</i> going to get you to undress for me one of these days."</p><p>"I don't doubt it," he mutters back. "But for now, if you wouldn't mind <i>helping</i>."</p><p>--I was hounded into writing Cullen fic featuring erectile dysfunction, and make it as fluffy and sweet as possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a knight poorly made.

**Author's Note:**

> There was a kinkmeme prompt about Cullen not being able to get it up due to lyrium withdrawal or something, anyway I saw it and it became a running joke in my apartment. My roommate eventually got me to write the thing, and here we are. I tried to leave details about the Inquisitor vague, though I did slip up and imply she's a redhead (and possibly a warrior?) but god knows you can ignore that if you like.

If only to himself, Cullen has to admit there's a little thrill at being so obviously wanted. If it's somewhat undignified, he'll just have to endure being manhandled into bed. There are certainly worse things to be subjected to, far worse than forceful and appreciative kisses, and being dragged in the direction of his bed.

She lets him go eventually, though they're both breathless by then. He can't say he minds that either. "How're you planning on getting all that armor off?" She says, smiling from the bed. She's sitting there, casual as anything, looking up at him with a grin.

"I, um," and Cullen's left standing before her. He can feel a slight throb begin at the back of his head, but he chooses to ignore it in favor of the vision before him.

She leans back and crosses her legs. "Off with it, then. Leave the fur on until last."

"It's on the outside, it'd-" But that's not the point, and they both know it. He groans, smiling despite himself, and finds a place on the bed next to her. Her mouth is very, very soft-- countering for all the hard edges, he imagines-- and she always goes a little breathless when he kisses her. It's one of his favorite things about holding her near. Despite all the bluster and posturing, she still doesn't seem like she quite knows what to do with kindness. 

What she does know is what to do with him. She speaks against his lips, her breath ghosting over his scar. "I _am_ going to get you to undress for me one of these days."

"I don't doubt it," he mutters back. "But for now, if you wouldn't mind _helping_."

She laughs, either at his voice or his request, but what matters is that she helps. She wears armor herself (though not, she points out later, on her off-hours) and knows her way around the buckles and the belts. She kisses the scar on his shoulder, the one down his side, and then moves down to his trousers, and he has to stop her so he can get _her_ shirt off. It becomes a game, one without words and a fair amount of shoving and teasing. He's not... used to this. He's sure he's got less experience than one _should_ at his age (the Order will do that to you; he doesn't regret it) but he's never been with someone so open and welcoming. Everything is grand, as long as he's with her. No hushed whispers in the tower, no stolen glances or shame, it's all a delight.

She's still laughing. He tries to ignore how it makes his head pound, and focuses on the meaning of the sound. "Blond- you're blond all over?"

"You're _red_ all over." He taps her shoulder, near the sprig of dark red hair twisting out from her underarm. 

She swats his hand away. "Yes, but that's less amusing, as I've seen myself naked before. This--" she runs her hand down his chest-- "is bloody magnificent. You've a pelt."

He groans, but she knows him well enough to know it's with fondness. The ache at the back of his head blossoms into a full and throbbing knot of pain, but he's gotten good at ignoring that. He focuses on her smile instead, and it's almost like it doesn't matter.

"It's very Ferelden, I approve." She kisses him again, and her hand moves further down, only to find-- Damn. 

He's aware of his own disappointment, hitting like a rushing wave, and following quick on its heels is the icy sting of embarrassment. He's used to that, feeling despicably out of his depth, but this is another level entirely. He breaks away, and she does the same. That hurts the most, but it's to be expected, when you see someone-- someone you adore, someone you want _desperately_ \-- naked for the first time and you can't even manage to get stiff for them.

"Oh," she begins, and he follows up with, "the lyrium-" and then it's just a mangled rush of both their words, hurrying to try and cover the whole mess. 

When they've both run out of awkward nonsense, he starts again, "it's the lyrium." He can't help but grimace. He doesn't want to sound as though he's blaming _all_ his failings on that, but it _is_ the truth of the matter. He wants her to know it isn't _her_. He wants her to know it isn't _him_ , either, but that isn't quite a relief he's earned. "It's not you- you're- you're beautiful, Maker, I-"

She looks up, meets his eye with something like surprise, and reaches out to feel his forehead. "Are you alright, then?"

"Am _I_?" He feels the coolness of her hand on his brow, and leans into it on instinct. "Just a headache."

"You should have said."

He ducks his head so he can meet her eyes, staring at her from beneath her fingers. She looks... concerned. Not disappointed, as he'd expected, or offended, as he'd feared. Maybe she's just worried for him? It seems too much to hope for.

"I've gotten good at ignoring them." He looks down again. "I didn't think of it."

"Until the pain was enough to..." She frowns.

"Er, yes."

"You're blushing, oh..." She reaches out, holds him close, and kisses the growing heat on his cheekbones. "You're a dear thing."

"I believe I'm supposed to say that to _you_." Luckily, with her so near, the muffled quality of his voice seems to hide the tone of petulance.

"I don't need a knight," she says. Her voice is very fond. "I'm my own knight."

"I'd noticed."

"Yes, you're very clever. Have you noticed the part where..." She draws back, frowning. "Look, I'll be honest, this isn't... my dream come true, I'm not... I'm not sure _what_ to do. But I'm not angry with you."

He feels as though a weight has been lifted from him. What can you say to that? He's never been much good with words, so he kisses her instead, trying to put in all the passion he can't show her any other way. It seems to work; lying together as they are, she's left breathless and gasping, pulling at him with her legs wrapped around his waist. It's the sort of thing he's dreamed of, other days when he was feeling better. "Let me make it up to you," he says, whispering in her ear, and he can tell it's working by how her hands at his back are suddenly all grasping fingernails.

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

And she lets him. Perhaps he'd have cause to regret it, in the normal way of things-- her high-pitched swearing and tugging at his hair does absolutely nothing good for his headache. But his life is hardly normal anymore, is it? And he's wanted to do this for _ages_ , to get her off with his hands and his mouth, feel her all around him, hear her breathing his name. It will have to do for now. It certainly seems to do her in.

Afterward, she gasping and boneless beside him. If he were a noble, he thinks, some sort of awful pompous lord, he'd commission a painting of her like this. He wouldn't, of course, even if he could; it's too personal to leave to another painter's hand. But breathless and flushed, that's her at her most beautiful.

She curls limply into his arms, still whispering his name and petting at his chest. "I thought men hated that," she finally says.

"What?"

"The... mouth thing."

He laughs, a quiet chuckle in the back of his throat. "The _mouth_ thing?"

"Have you got a better name for it?"

"I'm sure they do in Orlais."

"We're not Orlesian." She kisses his neck, and it sends a shiver down his spine. "Thank you," she says.

"You don't have to _thank_ me."

"Well, I am anyway. Thank you, Cullen Rutherf-"

"Oh, please-"

"Stanton of-"

"Maker-"

"Honnleath and Captain of the Guard, first of his name-"

"That isn't even-"

"For getting me off _so_ nicely-"

"You want to make me blush again, that's it, isn't it?"

"Oh, are you?" And she stops and kisses him instead, until neither of them are blushing any longer.


End file.
